


Man, Maid, Mine

by Charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Makeup Sex, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Rough Sex, Sensitive Sandor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: He tasted of smoke and ale and salt and the blood of the men he’d killed.Forced to leave his little bird behind in her cage, the Hound and his bitch take to the Kingsroad in smoke and silence. Fire and fury hangs between them as strong as the flames burning on the Blackwater and only one thing can make it better…





	1. Fled

“What the fuck was that?” she asked, her voice a whiplash of fire that broke the silence of the night. They’d been riding hard, pushing through forest and ford, putting as many leagues between themselves and King’s Landing as possible. Even now as they passed through Brindlewood, the air was thick with the smoke drifting off the burning city. Red walls had turned jade with the light of wildfire; screams and shrieks had filled the night. “Sandor, what the fuck was that?”

Sandor Clegane sat his horse and stared straight ahead. He’d lost his black stallion in the flames and arrows and lances thrown by Stannis’ army. Half his men had perished, a dozen more had run headlong for the black waters of the Rush desperate to put out the flames of green that circled their throats like emerald torques. _Good horse, that_. He felt a pang of loss in his hard old heart and scowled. _Good men, too_. He thought of the Imp who’d ordered him to lead another sortie and defend the king. _Fuck the king, fuck the Imp, fuck them all_ … He sat his horse and stared straight ahead, thinking of the little bird with hair red as fire and eyes blue as sapphires staring out from a pale terrified face. _Fuck her, too_.

“What the fuck was what?” he barked, his voice harsh and thick amongst the shadows of the night.

“I _saw_ you, Sandor,” came her voice like a whip again. “I saw you put a knife to her little throat and demand a song.” Smoke swirled thick as her sound now. “I _saw_ you – ”

“Women,” he snarled venomously. “Bunch of cunts, the lot of you.” He flashed a look of fire at her before he pressed his horse forward. “Man drags a maid from a flaming city and all she can do in thanks is chew his fucking ear off about things she’s _seen_.” He stared straight ahead. “Should’ve left you to burn.”

“Cunt,” she hissed at his back. “ _Coward_.”

They rode in silence, side-by-side, staring straight ahead and ignoring the hate and heat that surged between them strong as the smoke curling off of the ruined city. They turned down a twist, pushed through dripping thatches of elm and alder, pressing deeper and deeper along the Kingsroad until they pulled up abruptly in a village of low stone houses. She wove her horse in step with his as he guided them to an ivy-covered inn. He pulled his horse to a halt, dismounted and stepped to her mare. Without glance or gruff word, he reached up and hauled her from her horse; she landed heavily on her boots and scowled at him as he turned the horses over to a stableboy and walked away from her.

Inside, the inn was warm and smoky and near empty. A few travellers in stained cloaks huddled in corners sipping thin ale and eyeing up the giant who swayed through the doorway and cut his way through the benches with a small woman at his side.

“A room,” rasped Sandor. “Meat and mead in an hour.”

He tossed a silver coin at the serving wench and took his woman by the arm, collaring a flagon from the gnarled bar as he did so. Silent eyes followed them.

She let him drag her through the twists of benches and staring men, up the buckling old staircase and along a galley that smelt of wine and sweat. He shut the door behind them. The room was small and clean enough, most of it taken up by a red-framed bed and a battered ashwood table with a basin and ewer set upon it. A fire burnt low to glowing embers in the hearth. She tore herself from his grip and stepped away from him in the narrow confines of the room. Moonlight spilled in through the half-open shutters and the air tasted of salt and smoke. She stood there a moment, looking out through the glass, her throat tight and shoulders high.

Sandor went to the bed and sat down heavily upon it. _Sing, little bird_. The words stormed his head and he uncorked the flagon and sank it back. _Sing for your little life_. He drank long and deep, the ale soaking into his beard and trickling down his neck. He saw the sapphire eyes shining in the dark of her bedchamber, saw the fear on her face as a flash of jade fire erupted over the city. He shook his head, returned to the present; the flagon was empty. It smashed into half a hundred sherds when he threw it at the wall where she stood. He watched her wordlessly; she didn’t flinch. _She never flinches from any of it, she never has – not from my face or my fury or my fucking temper_. He ground his teeth and hated how much he wanted to take her in his arms, hated how he needed to cross the room and find comfort in her. But he sat and watched; she was warning him off with her stiff back and harsh breath. _Women_ … So he waited.

The silence stretched till he couldn’t stand it.

“Ada,” he said at last, his voice rough and harsh in his throat. “Ada, look at me.”

He kept the desperation from his words but he felt it surge thick as fear and fire in his heart. His hands twitched on the rich red coverlets of the bed and his nostrils flared to fight the rising tide of anxiety fixing in his throat.

“Why should I?” asked Ada from her perch before the window, her voice low and numb. “I’m not your little bird, Sandor… I’m only your loyal bitch.” She turned to face him and he saw half a hundred thoughts plain as day on her face: hurt and fury and love and hatred. Her fine black brows flickered together and her mouth was set firm. “I’ll never be her, Sandor Clegane. _Never_.”

He rose and in one huge step he was in front of her, towering over her, keeping his hands off her as he read the fire in her eyes and fought the heat in his own blood. She was darkly beautiful: leather and steel compared to the red feathers and sapphires of the little bird. There was a light to her dark eyes that had always disturbed him, a harsh curve to her jaw that warned him off, and her hair hung black and long down her back like a mourner’s cloak. She was sun-browned where the little bird was pale, with bruised violet gaze and red lips. Slender, small, her chin a tapered point. _Yet she is beautiful_. He felt love burst like sunlight behind his eyes. _And she is mine_.

“I don’t want you to be her,” said Sandor, his voice stones breaking. “I want you as you are.” He ran a hand down her face. “Mine.”

She broke almost immediately; the tension left her shoulders as she staggered into his arms and let him sweep her up in his embrace. He found her mouth and kissed her with fever and fury, bruising her lips, tasting her blood as he nipped her with his teeth. Her hands were everywhere at once: ripping at his dark hair, clawing at his beard, digging like daggers into his throat. He was covered in blood and bone and smelt of smoke and sweat and ale and weariness but she drank him in like he was summerwine and rosewater. He loved her for that, fiercer than he ever had. His fingers found the front of her gown, pulled at the ribbons and pushed away the bodice and sleeves. The green velvet hung off around her hips where she twined around him, her legs clutching at his waist. One great hand roved to her breast and squeezed; she bucked and moaned and arched herself into his touch. Her eyes were black with lust and she stared down at him heavy-lidded, her lips twisted still in fury as she kissed him hard and bit his jaw.

“I hate you,” she hissed, her voice bleeding to a moan as he rolled her nipple beneath his palm and nipped her chin. “I _hate_ you, Sandor.”

“No you don’t,” he growled, spinning on his heel and throwing her onto the bed. She landed on her back, writhing and bucking and reaching for him, her black hair twisting like angry snakes against the red coverlets. He grasped the half-undone gown and she lifted her hips with a whimper to let him drag the green velvet off her body. He threw it over his shoulder and pulled his surcoat off, snapping at the laces of his breastplate and shrugging from the bloody ruin of his mail and plate and leather. She watched him through narrowed eyes and opened her legs and smiled thinly to see his eyes leap between them and darken. _That cunt_. He yanked the tunic over his head and groaned to see her dip her hand between her thighs and run her fingers up and down the plush folds. _That hot little cunt that I guard as jealously as a king guards keep and castle, that cunt I need as a man needs air to breathe_ … He made to touch her but she kicked at his hand and bit her lip to stifle a whimper as her fingers found her nub and circled slowly. He growled at her. “Ada.”

“Is this what you want?” she asked, her voice breathy and rich and dark and sweet. _Maddening_. He felt his cock harden and twitch and she watched it with laughter in her gaze. “Does the Hound want his little songbird now?” She tipped back her head and shuddered, her fingers delving and dipping, her cunt glistening and pulsing. She met his eyes again, her cheeks flushed, her lips full. “Or does the dog hunger for his bitch instead?” She rolled onto her belly and leant on her elbows, bringing her arse up and throwing a look of heat and fire over her shoulder at him.

He slammed his palm down on her arse, again and again, left it pink and purple and red and flaming. Then his hand went between her legs and grabbed her cunt roughly in his palm; he thumbed her folds and found her soaking. He turned her onto her back and spread her legs, his hands hard clamps on the soft skin of her thighs as he dropped to his knees on the floor and sucked her cunt into his mouth before she could utter another maddening word. She arched up from the bed with a throaty cry; his arm whipped like a stone snake across her hips and pinned her flat to the red coverlets, his hand pressed spread-fingered across her belly, pushing down and making her squirm against his tongue. He twirled her nub and twisted it, suckling it and kissing it, before he drew his tongue wide and flat all the way between her folds. She tasted of wine and oranges and cloves and _life_ and he lapped it up until she was hoarse from crying out.

“You’re a jealous little bitch, aren’t you?” he growled, drawing back and meeting her eyes as he spat down onto her cunt. “Such a _bad_ bitch.” He slipped his tongue up and down; the sloppy sound of cunt and tongue and moaning drowning out the smoke and sadness and songbirds of King’s Landing. “But _mine_.” He kissed her nub and circled it with his tongue, making her keen and whine and dance trapped between his arm and the featherbed. “All mine, Ada.” She came against his face, twitching like a dying woman as he suckled on her soft and slow, pulling back and sucking in, on and on till she screamed and pushed at his head with the heels of her hands, her feet drumming against his back. “That’s better.” His gruff voice vibrated through her skin and she fell back boneless from her fight, her thighs widening even more beneath his mouth as he kissed her cunt softly and then whispered his lips along the swell of her hips. “That’s better, isn’t it, Ada?”

“Cunt,” she hissed, glaring down at him as he kissed his way up from her hips to her throat. She rolled beneath him, crossing her ankles around his broad waist, clutching at the huge muscles of his upper back, lifting her hips to press her cunt against his hot hard belly. She marked him there, warm and wet, and pulled at his bottom lip with her teeth to see the flare of lust in his eyes. “Coward.” She licked her palm and then glided it around his cock, drawing up and down, squeezing just tight enough to see the flames burn as bright in his eyes as they did over Blackwater Bay. “But _mine_.” She took his kiss as it landed on her mouth: hot and hard and heavy. “All mine.”

“Yours,” he agreed on a rough growl, sucking on her lip and snaring her tongue with his. He groaned into her mouth as her thumb ran over the crown of his cock and brought it between the sopping hot folds of her cunt. “All yours, Ada.” He jerked his hips and slid into her in a single hard thrust, parting her folds, pushing deep into the pulsing walls that gripped and clamped on him, rippling as fierce and strong as wildfire. He threw back his head and gave a sound, half-sob half-groan, as her hot little cunt closed on his cock and drew him into the comfort only she could provide. “What would a dog be without his bitch?” He slammed into her, his hips hard as rock against hers, his mouth dipping to suck and bite at her throat.

“Nothing,” she answered, gripping at his jaw and kissing him. He tasted of smoke and ale and salt and the blood of the men he’d killed. She lifted her hips and took him deeper, holding his face in her hands as he stared down at her with wild desperate eyes. “Nothing, my love.” He buried his face into her neck and ground his hips against her, determined to drown himself in her warmth like the men he’d left to swirl amongst the Blackwater. “That’s better, Sandor.” She stroked his hair and whimpered as she felt his tears hot as blood on her throat. “All better now, my love.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NB** : an unofficial sequel to [Little Lady.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16743523) 🐶


	2. Found

There was smoke in the air when he woke the next morning. He flailed and panicked, the muscles in his legs trembling as he wrenched himself up from the bed. His eyes dipped and swayed as he smelt the woodsmoke and looked round for wildfire and burning horses and screaming men and the curve of Blackwater Bay lit jade and emerald and sage. His head was a swirl of black smoke and roaring flame and anguished shrieks and cries. His heart was bursting in his chest and he reached for sword or axe or hand to pull him from the twisting flames –

“Sandor,” came a soft voice through the smoke and blood and fire. “ _Sandor_ , look at me.” Something gentle and warm was pulling at his face and he wrenched from black and jade flame to turn toward it. “Love, _look_ at me.”

Sudden as a storm, the chaos of blood and fire died from his eyes and there she was kneeling on the bed beside him: Ada. Her hair was a rumpled mess of black curls, her violet gaze hooked on his, her soft lips mouthing words of comfort at him as her fingers slipped down his cheeks and smoothed away his terror. He gave a cry and surged toward her touch, taking her lips desperately. She tasted of wine and oranges and cloves and _life_. He drank her in with fevered need, his arms locking around her tiny waist and making her ribs creak. He clutched her to him as he drew back from her lips and laid his cheek flat to her bosom. She rocked him there, her heartbeat a steady thrum against his cheek, his nose buried in the soft flesh of her breasts.

“Hush, my love,” she murmured, swaying him to her heart and stroking his damp hair. “Hush now, Sandor, I’ve got you… I’ve got you, my love.”

He held tight to her body and breathed hard through his nose, his eyes shut tight as the pain and terror slowly slipped from his head.

“I went to her room.” His voice was low and quiet, an aged old oak broken by storm. “I sat on her bed and waited for her in the dark.” Her hands stroked his hair from his brow gently. “I just wanted to save her, Ada. I wanted to take her from that place and keep her safe.” His shoulders shook as a sob tore through him. “But she looked at me like I was a monster. She looked at me like _I_ was more like to hurt her than that fucking boy-king who stripped and slapped her before all those cunts at court.” He lifted his head and stared at her with wet wild eyes. “Am I so terrible, Ada?” He drew back and held her face in his great hands, tears running down the crimson and black and bone-white of his scar. “Am I truly so terrible?”

Ada shook her head between his hands and smiled softly, her fingers running down the twists of his face and feathering his lips.

“No, my love,” she murmured. “You are a hard man who makes himself fierce and furious.” She closed her eyes and leant toward his lips. “But past the fury is a good man true, as much as he hates to hear it.” She opened her eyes as he kissed her and they stared at each other with desperation. “But little Sansa Stark… she has already had more grief than any can imagine. She is just child, Sandor Clegane – and she sees your fury with a child’s eyes even as her heart knows yours to be kind and true.” She thumbed his lips and shuddered in his hands. “You tried to free the little bird from her cage… but she is not yet ready to fly, love.” She wiped the tears from his eyes. “And that is not your fault, Sandor. Do you hear me?” He nodded, his eyes fierce, and she smiled. “Good… _good_ , my love.”

Sandor stayed sat in a dream-drunk daze on the red-curtained bed and watched her wordlessly as she stood and crossed the room and picked up the basin of water on the battered old ashwood table. He sat on the edge of the bed as she set the basin on the floor and bent to wet a rag. She washed away the blood and sweat and smoke of battle from his skin, teased the dirt from his shoulders and hands, cleaned the cuts on his lips and face. She ran the cloth over his hair and beard and wiped the tears from his cheeks. His hands, now clean of blood and soot, lifted to rest on her naked hips and he looked up at her with soft eyes. They stood in silence, staring at each other, her fingers winding into the dark hair at the nape of his neck, his hands whispering on her hips. He leaned forward and put his forehead to her throat, his face between her breasts, his mouth tasting the sweetness of her skin as he sighed and shuddered.

“Clean,” she whispered, her fingers tipping his chin up to drink deep his eyes. “And bloodless.” She sank onto his lap as he pulled her hips toward him. His hands settled in the indentations of her ribs and he kissed her throat before he met her mouth with his. “And mine, Sandor Clegane.” Their bodies rocked and rolled, ready to drown in each other’s heat and heart. “Mine.”

* * *


End file.
